Beyond Their Masks
by Elisabeth Harker
Summary: A scandalous yet highly moral sensation story about the meeting of two women who were made to transcend expectations. Sarah Jacobs / Jo March


Notes:

I'm aware that I'm taking great liberties with history to make Jo (who was a teenager during the civil war) and Sarah (who was a teenager during the 1899 Newsies strike) meet and be around the same age. Let's just ignore that, and mash the entire 1800s into an era called "long long ago, totally not today". Just go with it.

...

Over the the years, as Sarah Jacobs had passed all too quickly from childhood into adulthood, she had built up a wall of serenity around herself that was very rarely broken. Now that she was twenty the wall was near impenetrable, and it was one of Sarah's most valuable assets.

The small brown envelope, which her father placed in her hands as he came in from work, was enough to make Sarah suddenly aware of every crack and weakness in her poor little wall, and she didn't know why. All she knew was that her stomach was doing somersaults, her cheeks were red, and yet she rather relished the whole experience.

"Dare I ask about this Mr. J.O., care of Volcano Press publishing house?" Papa asked.

Mama stopped stirring the fish stew she was preparing for dinner. "Can we hope this is a nice young man who writes to you, or are we reading those sensation stories again?"

"It's Jimminy October," Les supplied helpfully, "and I for one happen to like his stories, even if all he ever does is write about girls."

Mama slapped herself in the forehead with a woeful expression, and Sarah didn't know why, considering Les had only mentioned the proliferation of female protagonists in the stories, and not the intrigue and murder .

"David, darling," Mama went on, "tell your poor mother that the Volcano Press is not one of _those_ publishing houses, and your sister isn't again reading stories that teach her how to poison us all in our sleep."

"It's not as bad the publishing house I work for, and you know it," said David, who was in fact sitting at the table with a pen and a stack of papers, trying to edit the manuscripts he'd not had time to finish at the office, and trying even harder not to become too frustrated while doing it.

"Don't say bad things about the publishing house that sends your brother to school! At least they don't go around calling themselves 'Volcano'. What do volcanoes do but explode and set houses afire?"

"Let me tell you about this story I'm reading, and you'll be wishing we kept a volcano around to throw it into," David said, with a significant glance at Sarah. She understood. She made a dash for the bedroom just as David was getting up to show his papers to Mama, and keep her distracted with a set of literary atrocities that thankfully were not Sarah's concern.

Finding her room too warm, too stuffy, and not nearly private enough, Sarah opened the fire-escape window and climbed out, shutting the glass firmly behind her. With shaky, excited hands she tore the thing open to read by the moonlight.

_Dear Miss Jacobs_,

Sarah paused, fingers moving over the script, which was large and bold, but with a decidedly unmasculine curve about the letters.

_Thanks for taking interest in my work, but please don't. The stories weren't written for the right reasons, and I've resigned myself to pursuing other means of making a living until I can write some that I'm proud of. If you're looking for something worth reading, give Pilgrim's Progress a try. It's an excellent little story, and I find returning to it gives me direction whenever I need it most_.

_Sincerely yours_,

_Mr. J.O. _

Sarah's smile faltered halfway through the first sentence, and turned to confusion as she continued. She didn't understand how this Jimminy October could dislike their own stories, not when they were interesting and engrossing, and so very full of obvious skill.

Sarah sighed, and placed the letter in the pocket of her skirt.

Later that night, when David was asking too many questions as he always did, Sarah tried her best to answer as little as possible. David, with unusual tact, assumed that she was disappointed by whatever words her idol had sent her, and eventually let her roll over and go to bed.

The letter was still in Sarah's pocket, and it still felt like a little piece of excitement, even if the wrong words had been written upon it. Probably Sarah would be disappointed soon enough, but she couldn't resign herself to giving up just yet.

...

Four days later, Sarah went to the stationary shop, looking for a bundle of nice letter paper, or a suitable card for her endeavour. The sheets she chose were thicker and more substantial than the paper she'd written her last letter on, and their whiteness was more the color of cream than the color of snow. She found a postcard of a young woman, clad in a nightgown that fell away slightly to expose a bit of her collarbone, gazing into the mirror as she curled her hair, a long process which Sarah had undertaken many a time herself. Sarah assumed that the postcard was meant to be seductive, but the woman in the picture just looked tired, like she would rather be in bed.

Sarah paid seven cents for her purchases. The rare luxury made her feel unusually fine. How funny that she should be so eager to use it up on somebody she had never met! She wanted her words to carry weight, and to make an impression, and she thought she had chosen trappings that suited herself, whatever this Jimminy October chose to think of them, and so she was satisfied with that.

There was always a great scuffle in the house, whenever anybody other than David wanted to use the writing desk, which he had claimed for his work spot, even though Papa had made it for everybody in the family.

"I need you to help me keep a secret," Sarah told her brother as soon as he got home, hoping to stop any argument before it started. "Give me some of your paperwork. Pull up your chair next to mine while I write my letter. I don't want Mama to worry about it."

"Is it Jimminy October again?" David asked. Gratified though Sarah was to hear that he was whispering, she put her finger up to her mouth to demand perfect silence. David rolled his eyes, but complied. He dragged in a chair from the kitchen, handed her some manuscripts, and sat down beside her. In this space, which was really too small for the both of them, Sarah had to be careful not to elbow him as she wrote.

_Dear Mr. October_,

Sarah looked over at David to make sure he was paying attention to his work and not hers before continuing:

_At your suggestion, I spent the last week reading Pilgrim's Progress. I'm afraid that, as a Jewish woman, I might not be the sort of "Pilgrim" that John Bunyan had in mind when he wrote the story. Nonetheless, I've made a great deal of "progress" within my own faith, and I'm satisfied in my morality. I'm a loving and dutiful daughter. I go to synagogue with my family each week. I say my prayers, and I believe them. What's more, I believe strongly in trying to make the world we live in a better place for others. I'm idealist, and I'm proud of it._

_You wrote in such a way as to make me believe that you think your own stories immoral. I hope that this isn't true. The Newspapers are more full of deceit and murder than any of your stories, and nobody is ever looked down upon for reading them. The journalists play their game, and I've come to know quite a bit about what makes a headline good. Although your stories are imaginary, you're a thousand times better than the journalists are; you aren't twisting the truth to earn your keep, but creating a new reality that exposes truths that many don't dare to speak._

_In particular, your story "Behind a Mask: a Woman's Power" meant a great deal to me. It was obvious from the beginning that Miss Muir was trapped in a world where she must take her "power" from curls and dresses, and projecting upon others that she was as innocent and pure as a child, though she was already long grown. This kind of power is a farce, and I'm grateful that you exposed it as such, while also acknowledging the near impossibility of escaping from it without a great deal of suffering. I feel the weight of my own mask, though it is not at literal as Miss Muir's. My brothers (who I love with all my heart) are permitted to tumble like bulls through life, making mistakes and upsetting things, and I'm expected to be an angel. I do my best, though you might not believe me soon, because I'm about to ask some questions that I shouldn't. If you would like to stop reading and throw this letter away before I start to pry, please do. I know I'm being beastly, but your answers would mean a lot to me._

_Do you wear a mask, Mr. October? You must be aware of the persistent rumours that you are not called Jimminy, but Jane or a Julia, and that you are confined, as I am, by skirts and hairpins, and men who expect us to be saintly or sinful with very little in between. The way that women authors are so often forced to hide behind a pen name makes them difficult to find out and know._

_Either way, if you can excuse my impertinence, and excuse my rambling, I'd very much like to know you, Mr. October._

_Sincerely,_

_Sarah Jacobs_


End file.
